and take care of the kids
by fiesa
Summary: Crossing Lines. If that's the way they say good bye now, it's not so bad. (Except that he's leaving.) OneShot/Introspection – Detective Amanda Andrews, NYPD.


**and take care of the kids**

 _Summary: Crossing Lines. If that's the way they say good bye now, it's not so bad. (Except that he's leaving.) OneShot/Introspection – Amanda Andrews, NYPD._

 _Warning: One shot, drabble-esque, introspection._

 _Set: Before and during s02ep02 – Homecoming._

 _Disclaimer: Standards apply._

* * *

 _"_ _You know I never blamed you for this."_

 _"_ _You don't have to."_

Amanda Andrews has lied to many people.

It comes with the job description, kinda. And she does feel bad when she has to lie to innocent folks. She doesn't give a damn about those who lied to her or others in the first place; they had it coming. But Amanda has never lied to herself. She knows, and Carlton Hickman knows, as well.

 _I blame myself._

She does. She does day and night, whenever she thinks of him and wonders what he's doing. Whenever she needs someone to talk to about a tricky case, and whenever she turns to make sure he's there _(because they're partners, they have each others' backs)_ and realizes he's not anymore.

People say you only notice what you've had when you lose it.

That's not entirely true.

Because Amanda knew what she had – she just was unlucky and lost it. Or she was too careless to protect it completely, or she has sacrificed it for something else. _(Oh, she can feel her bastard father laughing at her from his grave.)_ But she couldn't have known, _how could she have known?_ It was impossible, unfathomable, there is nothing like omen and bad feelings of foreboding. They were cops, they encountered gun-wielding criminals every day. It is what they do. So this one day, she went back to her family's place to bury the man she hated most, and, in doing this, she allowed fate to take something precious from her.

One decision, one that Hickman even supported.

One decision was enough to take what she had.

One decision has cost her her partner, her backup, the person closest to her. The silent and sometimes not so silent voice of contradiction that helps her see the flaws in her plans, the devil's advocate to her thoughts, her _counterbalance_ – and the only person in the world she considers her best friend.

Genovese shoots Carl in the hand, and nothing is the same anymore.

 _(Sometimes she wonders. Why? Why didn't the criminal simply shoot him in the head and kill him, do away with him? Why allow him to live? And then, sometimes, she thinks: because everything and everyone needs a mirror image, a dark ego, a light self. And Hickman is Genovese's counterpart, the goodness to mirror his evil, and maybe even crime lords need this balance. And then: no. Genovese is cruel, he wanted to savor his victory. He wanted to hurt, not to kill. He wanted to hurt Carlton Hickman for being the man Genovese never could be. And that's just… It makes her angry. And sad. And angry. And lonely.)_

And she gets used to it.

How could she not? There's work to do, always work to do, and since they put her in charge of a raid team (seems like _someone_ somewhere up there felt bad) she doesn't exactly need a new partner. Amanda does her job, like she always did, leads her team, files the paperwork and gets on with her life. And there might be an absence where Carlton Hickman used to be – but isn't she used to living with holes in her heart?

 _(She is. Doesn't make it easier, though.)_

* * *

She gets a phone call one morning.

Nine a.m., sharp. A Major Daniel from the International Criminal Court, he sounds capable, calm, French. His English is flawless, though. Amanda calculates quickly; it is three in the afternoon in Europe. He sounds intelligent and convincing, like a man who usually gets what he wants. Purely out of a streak of spite that hits her (because it is nine in the morning and she already has a new, major case on her desk, and her team is close to collapsing from anger and adrenaline that comes with hunting a cop killer for thirty-eight hours straight, and she is tired and angry from dealing with the press and the bureaucrats and her superiors all by herself and God she just _wishes-)_ she is determined to _not_ give him what he wants. Or, at least, to drop some tiny little stones onto his path so he can get a feel of how things get done in this part of the world. But the Major, after a brief, polite introduction, comes to the point so completely unexpected she leans back in astonishment.

"You were former NYPD Detective Hickman's partner."

"The ICC, as far as I know, has no official investigative team."

"I intend to add him to the team I'm currently putting together. Do you know where I can find him?"

There are so many things unsaid in these brief sentences that Amanda doesn't know where to begin, so she does what she always does.

"Why should I tell you?"

She's not going to answer him, for various reasons.

One, _she does not know_. Hickman left without even a note to her and the fact itself hurts so much she could scream, but she'll be damned if she tells Daniel, major or not. Two, the last thing she wants is someone offering him a position on whatever team out of curiosity or, worse, pity. He's one of the best profilers she knows, a good cop, a good man, and she won't let anyone use him no matter what. Three, _she's not stupid._ And, finally: Hickman was abandoned by people like the major, higher-ups with no understanding or even respect for the work common detectives do every day. Over her dead body she'll let anyone of them close to him another time. He's an adult, a grown man, yes. But he couldn't protect himself against Genovese and the NYPD bureaucrats, and she couldn't, either. So if she can protect him now, damn him, she'll do it.

"I understand and appreciate your concern, Detective Andrews. But I'm an old friend of Detective Hickman, and I do not intend to let him rot away in a shithole of a trailer in a Carnival in The Hague."

His tone remains calm and clear, even polite. It shuts her up, effectively.

"If you know where he is already, why did you call me?"

"I would like to hear an account of the events that led to his discharge from the NYPD from you, Detective, who was closest to him."

Amanda realizes she is standing, the phone pressed against her ear so tightly it hurts. She tries to relax, steps towards the blinds separating their – _her_ – office from the bullpen, and breathes in and out.

"What do you want me to say?"

"The truth, Detective."

"You really want him on your team? You know his right hand is crippled, don't you? And that he's taking Morphine?"

This is something she knows because she was at the hospital. While Hickman was still unconscious, after that, only once and never again. She's kept up with his recovery, though. It wasn't difficult to make the nurses talk; she is a cop, after all. Because she knows him, she also is pretty sure that he's not the kind of guy people want around a new, yet-unbalanced team right now, no matter however highly trained investigation specialists they might be. He's her former partner, and they were good together, but damn him if he's a person that's easy to work with.

Daniel's voice is soft. "I know."

Amanda's left hand curls into a fist. "He doesn't need your pity, Major."

"He won't get it, Detective. I need a profiler and an experienced cop. The other team members are the best in their field, but they're not used to each other. I need someone who can put them together, make them work with each other despite their different cultures, backgrounds and fields."

She laughs. She actually laughs.

"And you think he would be the right person to unite your team? Are we talking about the same Carlton Hickman?"

There is a smile in his voice as he answers, one that disappears as fast as her urge to laugh. "We both know he is the person I am looking for, Detective Andrews."

Amanda isn't stupid.

She wouldn't have made it this far up in the department if she was; she would have died far earlier and, most of all: she would not be able to look past the layers of deception and untruth people gloss over their persona like teenage girls use make-up to hide pimples. She has developed a sense for people, an instinct which she has honed for years, and it has yet to fail her. All her mistakes, all her experience, all her past and her present, the consequences of her errors and her achievements, have gone into it. And she knows, right now, that the man on the other end of the line is telling the truth.

Nothing but the truth.

"If you get him to work for you, Major," she says, carefully and deliberately. "You have found the best team leader and profiler you could ever get."

 _If you really get him to do it, you have my loyalty, as well._

"That's what I expected to hear. Thank you, Detective."

Amanda hears nothing else from Major Daniel. The day the ICC team closes its first case – a serial killer who works cross-border, a member of the US diplomatic corps, a monster hunting and killing women – the news almost gets lost in the flood of national news: economical crises, a demonstration for the transatlantic trade agreement, forest fires in California, an IS terrorist taking seven people hostage in a supermarket. But on a hunch, she checks the international press before she falls asleep that night. The article is on page one of the French newspapers because the last victim was from Paris. It's short, complete with a picture, and, on it, Amanda sees:

She sees nothing.

Of course not, which trained investigator would be stupid enough to get his face onto page one on the first day? The article is about the killer, about the beauty of international cooperation, it is completed by an image of a tall, dark-haired, calm man who gives off the feel of being used to being in charge, and Amanda thinks _so that's what he looks like._ There is mentioning of the new team, that it's put together of international specialists from France, the Republic of Ireland, Great Britain, Italy and the US, and _he did it._

 _Don't screw it up, Hickman, you hear me?_

 _(If you don't protect him this time, I'll hunt you down and find you. I swear.)_

* * *

Life goes on. Cases come and go.

Genovese tries to kill Hickman. Keeping up with the news about him, she is pretty sure Hickman is among the injured mentioned, but his name never appears.

 _(She would know if something had happened to him, wouldn't she?)_

So, yeah, life. And stuff. Cases, mostly.

There's still enough adrenaline to keep her running for a few more hours – enough to complete the paperwork, see the girls are safe and protected in the hospital and start the identification process – when she gets into her car after the horrid raid on the workshop.

The truck is not a trap anymore. None of her team died.

On the other hand, four of the six girls did not survive the ordeal, and two are so badly beaten nobody can even get a shot to begin identifying them. The fact that they are in a coma aside.

Amanda is not quite sure whether this was a good day, or a bad one.

And then:

The silhouette on the roof is unmistakable. Nobody would present himself so cockily, so daringly arrogant, to her in broad daylight. Dark hair falling onto his shoulders in gelled waves, broad shoulders, thin legs. Something flashes in the last sunlight: his rings, most likely, and _damn you Hickman they said you have him in custody!_

Philip Genovese, back to kill her.

Amanda is already grabbing for her phone when she realizes she doesn't even have his number.

Cursing, she slams the keys into the ignition, back up, gets onto the road. Her angry, muddled mind clears as a new wave of adrenaline washes over her. She dials from her steering wheel, her speaker system ping- _ing_ desperately to catch up with her.

"Major Daniel, we spoke before. It's Amanda Andrews."

"It has been a while, Detective."

* * *

" _Amanda?"_

He remembers her phone number. This bastard remembers her friggin' _phone number,_ even though he hasn't called her once in one year. _And why_? Why is it that she can still remember the sound of his voice, after all this time? It's like nothing ever changed, except that it has.

"Did you forget to tell me something?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Last thing I heard around here, you had Philip Genovese in custody."

"Yeah… Yeah, but not anymore. How did you get this number? Wait – why?"

"He just tried to kill me."

* * *

Amanda has learned quite a few things in her life.

One of the most important lessons was driven home by her father, early and cruelly. Nowadays, she uses it almost unconsciously, she tries not to think about it too much because it would make her question whether she is doing the right thing or not. But essentially, she lives it:

 _Never allow them to see your feelings._

So, before she closes in, she watches them. The infamous ICC team: a blond, stocky guy who must be the German IT specialist, he doesn't look like he's spent too much time in the field but looks can be deceiving. A guy who's unquestionably Irish – his accent is horrid, and he actually says _mate_ – and a woman who's everything that one would expect from an Italian woman. Amanda watches them, listens to them bicker, and makes her own picture of them in her mind. Hickman said: _they're the best._ She never heard him say anything like that, before. So either he's completely besides himself, or these kids – they're younger, they seem younger, they must be – left an impression. _Must be quite something to have you be protective of them like that_ , she thinks, wryly, and then starts at their question.

"So, what is she like?"

Hickman sidesteps with a description that makes something inside her cry out and she shuts that part away quickly. Erases everything from her face, steps behind him and whacks him on the head.

"That's for not calling me when Genovese escaped."

"You hit me!"

"I wanted to run you over. But Transports convinced me I don't need another vehicle damage report."

So much for a welcome, Amanda. Well done.

The other team members can't hide their grins and don't make an attempt to conceal their glee.

"Now _that_ was funny."

"I like her."

"I think we're going to be friends."

He looks older, so much older. How did this happen? And when? Does she look old, too? Once, seventeen years ago, they were two Academy graduates with the world and the future in front of them and all possibilities open to them. She can still see him – but that's the past. And he didn't tell her about Genovese. Her entire raid team could have died.

(It's hard to be angry when he looks at her like that. Hard to remember that she's angry on her team's behalf, not because-)

Amanda turns away and leads the ICC team into the building.

Not quite the greeting _he_ expected, probably, either.

 _Dammit, I missed you._

* * *

It doesn't take a long time to realize how he's playing the game, and only a short while longer to see that _it is not a game he's playing._

He wants to get the bastard caught, but he doesn't want the team endangered. He still thinks it's his mess to clean up, his vendetta, his duty, but her greeting seems to have been enough to make him realize that she is part of it, as well. (If it wasn't her greeting, he reads it from her frequent glances at his hand, and that's where it all begins again, isn't it? There was a daughter and a father, once upon a time, and a burial, and a rooftop with a cop without his partner. And that's where they stopped – they never went further, never went back. No movement, stagnation, they are frozen in time and nothing can change the fact until-) They've been partners for more than fifteen years, so he accepts that he can't leave her out.

She's as much a part of this as he is. She doesn't know about the kids, though.

Carl doesn't smile.

"They do their research."

It's almost about as ecstatic a praise as he can utter, and she's never seen him like this before.

It's almost like he's _protective_ of them, wants to keep them safe. At the same time, he lets them do their job. _Like a father,_ Amanda thinks, wryly, and knows he'd glare at her for speaking out loud.

"What's this?" The computer kid asks. She can see the disbelief on his face. "NYPD has no computers?"

Carl shrugs. "We prefer old-school."

Amanda can't help it. "As in pre-electricity."

Carl glares at her.

* * *

She wasn't wrong about his team.

"Everyone is okay with them being here, right, the kids? They're not going to step on any toes?"

"We're the NYPD. We have pretty big toes."

"Well, it there's any problem…You know, with anyone, just… You let me know – what?"

She's never seen him like this before. Caring like that, worrying… It makes him seem like a different person, except that she can see the Carlton Hickman she knew right there, in his eyes.

"They're… good."

He hasn't changed. He has just… gotten softer, she supposes.

"Come on." Up this close, she can almost feel his warmth. "Let's mess somebody's day up."

That sounds like a promise. Amanda smiles, and follows him out of the office.

* * *

It is like he never was gone, except that he was. But she can still read his intentions, and he can hear her unspoken words. She tells him about their informant and isn't surprised when he's not surprised that old Rolly still tries to play games with them.

"So he sent Rolly to take me out."

"Technically, Rolly didn't take you out. He was the bait."

"Remind me to tell you one day how much I hate it when you say _technically._ "

"Why would I remind you to keep nagging me?"

The light in his eyes is different, but it's there.

A spark of it, maybe just glowing embers. He wants Genovese caught as much as she wants, and is determined to not let him hurt anyone ever again. Perfect – just what she wants. _Maybe that was why we always worked together so well_ , she thinks, and almost smiles.

"I have something for you. It's small, but hey."

"Well, size doesn't matter, right?"

"That's just something girls tell you boys to make you feel better."

 _It's good to have you back._

 _It's good to be back._

* * *

She never would have thought it would be so easy.

They fall back into old patterns immediately: good cop, bad cop, lies that are none, half-truths that hide the truth completely. They know everything their informant knows even before he tells them anything. They corner him, wear him out. Carl has lost none of his skills when it comes to reading the mind of a criminal. She has lost none of her edge, catches his hints immediately. They were a good team.

They still are.

It's so easy, really, so good to be one half of _something_ again, that she almost forgets why they are there.

"Listen to me! Genovese is on his way!"

The voice coming from Carl's phone is male and carries a definite edge of panic, albeit tightly controlled. Amanda cannot make out whether it's Kommissar Burger or Detective McConnel, but the message broadcasts clearly.

She's never before heard the undercurrent in Carl's voice when he answers.

"Tommy. Tommy, calm down. Stop! It's okay. We know. We know, Tommy. We knew all along."

That's when she realizes that he's found something, someone: a team. That's when Amanda looks at her former partner and knows that he'll be better, that it's not the two of them against the world anymore but that this is temporary. Her, him, a case: it's what they had, but what she can't have anymore. (And whose fault is it?) This time, they're the temporary ones. He's found a place for himself, found constancy, something worth protecting. Carl found something worth living for after he almost gave himself up.

Amanda hadn't been able to save him. Those kids, though. They had.

And she'd been left behind.

* * *

But then he's there.

 _(If I say be careful, will it matter? -If I wanted careful I'd have stayed in Europe.)_

And he looks right through her. He always did. But he doesn't say anything, and she is so insanely glad she could cry.

He's alive.

* * *

"So…"

"So."

They had been able to hold entire conversations without saying more than two words. Unfortunately, this is not one of those nonverbal communication scenarios they've shared in the past. The only things they can hear are all the unsaid things in those two syllables, and she isn't sure whether this will break her or heal her.

"I was thinking. Once the extradition stuff comes through, I could maybe be his escort. Bring Genovese over there myself."

"I think that'll be great."

He walks around her desk. The closer he comes-

"But move first, though."

"Sorry?"

"Louis said you live in a shithole."

"That's what Louis says, huh."

"I'm not staying in a shithole."

He almost smiles. "No, I don't imagine that you would."

And it's his smile. The almost-smile, this short, fleeting upward-twist of his lips; the unfamiliar and yet familiar spark that lights up his eyes. It's his smile that breaks her, when she hasn't expected it to. When she has done everything and anything to not be caught up in this moment.

Amanda swallows, her throat suddenly completely closed up. A million of words, all stuck in her chest, painful and heavy, freezing her a bit more with every second she does not utter them. But how, how, _how_? They learned so much in the Academy and so much more out in the field and yet they still haven't learned _this_. And if she doesn't say it she will wither and die, shatter like a piece of hot glass hitting the floor. She chokes on the urgency to speak before he does, or before none of them does and everything falls apart again-

He takes the first step.

He moves closer, his intention clear in its awkwardness, and, at the same time, it is not awkward at all. His left arm wraps around her shoulders as he pulls her in. Suddenly she is leaning against him, and he's leaning against her. She can feel his breath at her ear.

"You know, I-"

"I know," Amanda whispers. "Me too."

 _(They've never hugged before. Never. They've shaken hands, high-fived, occasionally touched each other's shoulders or hands. But never like this; never this close. It's surprising, how familiar he is to her. His broad shoulders, the limpness of his right hand which he holds awkwardly away from her and she carefully circles as to not touch it. The warmth of his left hand on the back of her head. The strength in his shoulders. He's warm, and so familiar-)_

I missed you? I need you? Please don't leave? What is it she wants to say? What is it he knows?

"Be careful out there."

"You take care of those kids."

If that's the way they say good bye now, she thinks, it's not so bad. Except – except that he's leaving. Again. Suddenly it's over. His hand is on the door knob, his gaze studiously avoiding hers. Amanda grasps for her paperwork as if it was a lifeline.

 _Don't look back._

They turn their heads at exactly the same moment.

 _Don't –_

The letters blur before her eyes.

The door closes.


End file.
